Pages

I was searching through my unpublished entries for something to post today and I found this and added some illustrations. I wrote it way back at the beginning of September when Boyfriend and I first moved to Hamilton.

Boyfriend was being all whiny yesterday about how we never do real-person things like hang out with friends or wake up when it's still morning or eat at the Olive Garden. I was like "I hate pasta and we don't have any friends here yet... but we can wake up early if you want."

Boyfriend: "What time should we get up?"

Me: "I don't know. What time do successful people wake up?"

Boyfriend: "Probably around seven?"

Me: "Then we're getting up at 6:40."

It might have worked out better for me if I didn't get so damn excited about nothing at night. When most people are getting ready for bed, I'm sitting on my couch, vibrating with pent-up energy. I have no idea what I get so excited about, but whatever it is, it's really, really, really exciting!

This problem is especially acute when I know that I have to wake up early. Whenever I have to wake up early, I feel like I'm getting ready to embark on a dangerous adventure. I imagine that this is the same feeling you would get if you were trying to fall asleep the night before your first summit of Mt. Everest. Like you're either going to die or accomplish something amazing.

I try to talk myself down from this hyper-excited state, but it usually only exacerbates the problem. I say to myself "Go to sleep. There is absolutely nothing exciting happening tomorrow. You are probably just going to wake up, crawl downstairs and fall asleep on the couch." But then I feel like I'm trying to trick myself. I think "This is probably just a cover-up for what's really going to happen tomorrow morning... I'm probably going to die. Or win a million dollars!"

Around three or four o'clock, I will usually have exhausted my body's stores of adrenaline and I'll fall asleep instantly. This is when I start having crazy dreams. For some unknown reason, my crazy dreams usually start in an empty parking garage. The parking garage has little or nothing to do with the rest of the dream, but it's always there, like a portal to crazyland, signaling that the rest of the night is going to be full of flying and running and falling and spaceship crashes and Boyfriend is probably going to cheat on me with a robot and then pretend that it didn't happen even though I know it did because he has a glowing green spot on his face since apparently that's what happens when you sleep with robots and then I try to punch him in the face, but my hands are spindly and weak and it turns out that Boyfriend is actually a shapeshifter because suddenly he's a bear and instead of arguing about how he slept with a robot, I'm running away and trying to find Santa Claus because that's the only way to survive a bear attack but it doesn't matter anyway because now I have to fight a gila monster. And suddenly there's salsa music. I get absurdly angry at the music. It feels like it has been playing for hours and I am so sick of it that by the time I wake up and realize that it's actually my alarm clock, I'm ready to fight an army of orcs with my bare hands. My face and pillow are plastered with saliva. My eyes are almost swollen shut because I was sleeping on my face. I'm disoriented and angry.

Obviously this is not the part I was excited about. Actually, I don't even remember what that part was. At that point, all I know is that I'll never be excited about anything again because everything is stupid. My alarm clock is stupid, my pillow is stupid, the sun is stupid, feelings are stupid, grass is stupid, Oprah is stupid, bricks are stupid, birds are stupid - everything is stupid and I hate it.

This feeling usually subsides a little once I get coffee, but on this particular morning, I did not get coffee because Boyfriend was like "Do you want to go for a run?"

Me: "Running is stupid."

Boyfriend: "You don't really think running is stupid."

Me: "Right now I do."

Boyfriend: "Okay, well I'm going."

Me: "Wait! FINE. I'll go."

Boyfriend: "Okay, put on your shoes."

Me: "I'll put on your face."

Boyfriend: "That doesn't make sense."

Me: "You don't make sense."

And then we started talking about Face-Off.

Okay. I now understand why I didn't publish this before. There's no real ending to it. I must have realized this when I wrote it, but for some reason I forgot. I thought "Oh, I'll just draw some pictures, edit a few details and write a nice little closing paragraph!" But I was wrong. It's not that simple.

I can't just be like "And then we went running and it really sucked and I yelled at some cows just because they were there. The End." So I'm going to make up an ending.

After we finished talking about Face-Off, Boyfriend and I headed out the door to go for our run. That's when we noticed the zombies. There was an entire herd of zombies in our yard! We were like "Go away, zombies!" But the zombies were like "NO!" so we had to fight them. Boyfriend went inside and got his assault rifle and I just started punching. And then Boyfriend was like "Get out of the way!" And I dove to the side and he started mowing down zombies and our neighbors didn't even care because they were dead.

Anyway, fighting zombies turned out to be really easy because zombies are slow and stupid and Boyfriend and I are fast and smart. We just shot their knees out and then kicked their heads in. It was really violent.

Anyway, we killed all the zombies and then went for a run and it sucked and I yelled at cows just because they were there.

P.S. I don't know if there is a proper name for a group of zombies, so I just called them a "herd of zombies." But it's probably actually something like a "flight of zombies" or a "kindle of zombies" or a "bantam of zombies" or something. It's almost definitely a bantam of zombies.

UPDATE: I'm officially putting my support behind "zeppelin of zombies" submitted by Going Like 60, even though I hate alliteration. "A zeppelin of zombies" just sounds so natural, especially since I used to get Led Zeppelin and Rob Zombie mixed up. I know. There is nothing even remotely similar or confusing about those two names aside from the tenuous connection between three letter first names and last names starting with Z. I probably shouldn't even admit it publicly, but I just did. I confuse Led Zeppelin and Rob Zombie and that's why I'm supporting the term "a zeppelin of zombies." At the very least, getting that term officially recognized would lend some credibility to my confusion, even if only retroactively.

Since there is no official name for a group of zombies yet (though a few have been suggested) I propose that we act to get the phrase "a zeppelin of zombies"officially recognized.

UPDATE: Shit. "Legion of zombies" has also been suggested and now I don't know which one to choose. Thanks Maggie... way to make something that used to be totally simple not simple anymore. This may have to be settled with a poll.

I haven't posted in a couple days because I'm too sad to be funny. My pet rat, Isabelle, passed away last night after a heartbreaking struggle with a brain tumor and multiple strokes. She had been completely unable to move all day and I was holding her to my chest to comfort her. I started to cry and my poor little paralyzed rat used her last bit of strength to reach out her paw and grasp my hand. It was the last time she was able to move on her own.

I know that many won't understand my heavy grief over losing a rat. Rats don't have the most glamorous reputation, and it is easy to think of such a small animal as being worth less than a dog or a cat. But I loved Isabelle every bit as much as I've ever loved a dog. She was my constant companion from the day I adopted her and her sister, Dora. She was so intelligent and affectionate. She was always excited to see me and would run to the front of her cage every time I walked by. She would come to her name when I called her. She loved to sit on my lap and give me rat-manicures, and she liked riding in my sweatshirt pocket when I went to the grocery store or when I was just sitting on the couch. She was always docile and sweet - she never bit, even when the vet had to poke all sorts of needles into her in her final days. Isabelle was my "ambassador rat." She made many people into rat lovers - even people who used to be fearful of rats! It's hard to be afraid of something when it's wiggling with excitement and licking you.

Isabelle had a wonderful life full of love, good food and playtime. In the end, we did everything we could for her and I take comfort in that. Still, it's not easy to see the empty spot where she always used to sleep and I had a little breakdown today when I was making food for our remaining rats. I made too much because I was still counting Isabelle, and when I realized it, things really hit home a little bit. She's really gone.

Rest in peace, my little monster-face.

If you are opposed to sappy pet memorials, I advise you skip this next part. I put this up here because it helps me to have something like this to remember her by, and I like the idea of sharing a little bit of her with the world.

This is Isabelle:

Thank you for reading.

Update: Thank you all for your wonderful comments. I have gotten nothing but understanding and empathy, which warms my heart and completely restores my faith in the internet.

Ruby, your comment really touched me. I remember being your age and losing my rat, Cedar. I loved Cedar with every fiber of my being and when she passed, I thought I would never be able to love another pet the way I loved her. 15 years later, I still miss her terribly but I want you to know that I was able to love all the pets that came after Cedar just as much. Love is wonderful in that it can never be wasted or used up. We can never replace the people or animals we have loved, but the love we feel for them can be expanded. I like to think of love as being stretchy. It is easy to feel guilty when you start to love a new pet - like somehow that means you love your old friend less. But when you think of love as being stretchy and able to expand, you can see that there will always be room for everything. You can love as much as you want.

I just wanted you to know that I'm thinking about you, and I understand. No matter how much this hurts, you're not alone.

I just found out that I'm pretty much an expert at making advertisements. I saw an ad for Taco Bell and I was like "That ad doesn't make me want to buy tacos at all. I could do way better than that."

And Boyfriend was all "Tacos don't really need advertisements. They're tacos. They pretty much advertise themselves."

Me: "Yeah, but what if you are trying to break into the taco market and you have to compete with an established brand, like Taco Bell? You'd need to advertise and let consumers know that you are there and you are at least as competent at making tacos as Taco Bell."

Boyfriend: "Yeah."

Me: "And that's where I come in!"

Boyfriend: "That's where you come in and do what?"

Me: "Advertise the shit out of the new tacos!"

Boyfriend: "And how are you planning to do that?"

Me: "Easy. I'll show you."

So then I drew this to demonstrate how I would advertise tacos:

If you are the owner of an up-and-coming taco business, I made this for you. You're welcome. Taco Bell should've thought of hiring me, but they didn't, so the advantage is all yours.

And my expertise is not limited to tacos!

Example 1.) This is how I would sell pants:

If you are told that you are on fire and then you find out that it was just a joke and no, you aren't actually on fire, you'll be so thankful to be alive that you'll pretty much be willing to buy anything.

Example 2.) This is how I would sell insurance:

This advertisement could work for almost anything, but I chose Liberty Mutual because it was the first thing I thought of. Which probably means they don't need better advertising. And I just realized that I should have used a bank as my example because then the catchphrase "it makes a lot more sense than this picture" would have the added benefit of being a pun.

Example 3.) And this is how I would sell dog food:

People will remember an ad like that. Every dog food brand ever makes commercials of adorable puppies frolicking in grass or mischievously unrolling toilet paper all over the house. I bet none of them have ever dared to tell you that they'd turn your dog into a dragon. Just imagine, a couple is in the grocery store, trying to decide what kind of dog food to buy, and they're like "well, they're all pretty much the same - WAIT! Is that PURINA? Doesn't that stuff turn your dog into a dragon? AWESOME! I'm buying that." You jut got a new customer.

If you want people to buy your shit, I'm the person to call. And if you contact me soon, you'll probably be able to scam me into giving you a radical deal because I have been so busy discovering my talents that I haven't had time to do the proper research and I don't have any idea how much to charge for my services. If you contact me with an offer within the next 24 hours, I'll throw in a free piece of cake. That's right... cake. Absolutely fucking free.

What are you waiting for? Email me at ickybana5@hotmail.com. I know it sounds unprofessional, but that's the email address I've had since I was 14 and I'm not about to change it to accommodate my needs as an adult. I have some hardcore loyalty to that email address... just like the loyalty I'm going to try to build between you and your customers! ZING! It's like I was born to do this.

Boyfriend and I were sitting innocently in our living room, watching a movie. Then I heard a sound like grinding metal coming from outside and I was like "Do you hear that?"

Boyfriend: "Hear what?"

Me: "It sounds like robots having sex."

Boyfriend: "I'm not familiar with that sound."

Me: "Listen! It sounds like someone swinging on a rusty swing, only they're swinging really, really furiously. Like I don't know if it would be possible to swing that furiously. It's way more likely that it's robots having sex in our yard."

Boyfriend: "You should go check."

Me: "I don't want to go out there! I have no idea what could be making a sound like that. It's probably dangerous."

Me: "NO! There's another sound. A different sound. HOW CAN YOU NOT HEAR THAT???"

Boyfriend: "Because I'm not crazy?"

My curiosity and the urge to prove that I wasn't actually insane finally outweighed my fear of what might be on the other side of the door. I put on my hero-face and went outside.

I don't know if you've ever seen a dog battling a goose/monster, but that is what I saw when I opened the door. It was like The Gladiator out there, only with way more violence and robot-sex sound effects. At first, I was like "No Rustle! BAD DOG!" because I didn't want him to kill the goose. I chased him to the other side of the yard and by the time I turned around, the goose was inside my house. I heard Boyfriend yell "OH SHIT!!!"

I ran inside to find the goose chasing Boyfriend around our living room. Boyfriend was throwing things at it and yelling "GET IT AWAY!! GET IT AWAY!!! OH MY GOD!! WHAT'S IT DOING??!!" Everything was chaos. I started throwing things too and yelling "WHAT DO I DO?? WHAT DO I DO?!!"

Boyfriend: "IT'S TRYING TO BITE ME!! WHY IS THERE A GOOSE IN OUR HOUSE, ALLIE??? WHY IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME?!"

Me: "IDON'TKNOWIDON'TKNOWIDON'TKNOW!! GET IT! STAB IT!!!"

Boyfriend: "STAB IT?? HOW??"

At this point, the goose turned it's reptilian gaze upon me. Everything was still for a moment.

Boyfriend: "What's it doing?"

Me: "Oh God... I don't know... It's watching me..."

The next ten minutes were almost exactly like the kitchen scene in Jurassic Park - Boyfriend and I running around chaotically, trying to hide - the goose pursuing us like a bloodthirsty velociraptor.

If you have never been attacked by a goose, you may be wondering what is so scary about geese. Allow me to illustrate with a story from my childhood:

If you fuck with geese, they will bite you in the face.

Luckily, Boyfriend and I have blankets hung over all of our doorways to conserve heat and we were eventually able to trap the goose in our kitchen behind one of the blankets. At this point, I got out the video camera because there was a feral goose-raptor in my kitchen, you guys.

After it made several charges at me, I decided that antagonizing the goose was probably not wise, so I retreated to the living room. The backlighting in the kitchen cast a sharp silhouette of the creature on the bed sheet hung over the door. I could see it moving closer.

The sheet bulged outward.

It was escaping.

We fled up the stairs to the safety of our room. We could hear it pecking the ground outside our door.

We were trapped.

From our room, we called Fish and Game and they were like "Is it a wild goose?" And we were like "It's whatever kind of goose acts like a velociraptor..." and they were all "We don't know how to help you. Maybe you can trap it under a blanket and take it outside?" And we were like "Yeah, whatever."

After we got off the phone, Boyfriend said "So what are we really going to do with it?"

Me: "I don't know. Maybe we can trap it in the basement?"

Boyfriend: "That's a terrible idea. Do you really want that thing living in our basement?"

Me: "No. I don't know why I said that."

We decided that trapping it under a blanket was probably our only option. Unless we wanted to live in our room forever.

After a dramatic struggle, we were able to trap the goose, put it in the back of Boyfriend's car, drive it to a nearby duck pond and release it into its natural habitat, even though I'm pretty sure I'm wrong about that and its natural habitat is actually the Jurassic period and it's probably going to murder those poor ducks and then lurk under the surface of the murky pond, just waiting for hapless children to get too close to the edge of the water.

Apparently cookie monster is on a diet. Instead of being like "Yay cookies! I want to eat all the cookies in the world and then turn the world into a cookie and eat the world and then turn myself into a cookie and eat myself! COOKIES ARE MY MANA!!!" Now he's like "Cookies are alright, I guess. Eat them sometimes if you want. Be sure to eat your veggies kids. FML."

This may be old news to you guys, but I just found out yesterday, so bear with me in this time of change and total reexamination of my self-worth. I feel molested. It's like some creepy guy took over Sesame Street and now he's touching my childhood in its bad parts with his grabby no-no hands.

Anyway, drawing pictures helps me deal with my life and how it was coddled and nurtured and then ruined by Sesame Street:

The beginning of the week is hard for me. After not writing on the weekend, I always feel like whatever I do next has to be legendary to make up for it. But when I am trying to write something legendary, all I can think of is stuff like "cake is awesome" and "one time I fell down and hurt myself." Eventually I just end up hiding in a corner and watching The Bachelor for six hours straight because it "helps me think" but really it's because I want to forget about my responsibilities. That approach actually works pretty well until I start yelling at the contestants and Boyfriend walks in and says "Oh, there you are! What are you doing?" And I look up at him from my corner, my face and hands covered in honey because I just ate a honey and butter sandwich and I say "LEAVE ME ALONE!!! I'M WATCHING MY PROGRAMS!!!!!"

Then Boyfriend says "What's on your face?" And I'm like "IT'S HONEY! GET OUT OF YOUR FUCKING TOWER AND STOP ACTING LIKE YOU'VE NEVER HAD HONEY ON YOUR FACE BEFORE!!!" And Boyfriend is like "What?" And I'm all "DON'T JUDGE ME!" And I run away.

Then it's suddenly Tuesday and I haven't accomplished anything aside from making myself really sticky and totally disillusioned with love. At some point I'm like "I just have to do it. I'm going to sit down and write and see what comes out. No pressure."

Anyway, that's how posts like this happen.

UPDATE: I started responding to comments on this post and I realized that most of my responses were explaining butter and honey sandwiches, which is an admittedly weird thing to eat. I decided to elaborate here instead.

I used to really enjoy peanut butter and honey sandwiches, but I can no longer eat peanut butter because Boyfriend is deathly allergic to nuts. We cannot have peanut butter in our house. I still love bread and honey, though, so I got the bright idea to substitute regular butter for peanut butter. It's like all the best parts of every food ever, combined into one sandwich. If you could put happiness on bread and eat it, that's what eating a honey and butter sandwich would be like.

The keywords people use to find your blog or website on Google are very important to your success on the internet. According to StatCounter:

I think I'm doing it wrong:

Or maybe I'm doing it exactly right because I've most definitely cornered the niche on "101 Ways to Abort Your Gay-Married, Al-Qaeda-Loving Baby for $39 or Less!" Good career move, me.

UPDATE: I emailed Boyfriend at work and I was like "If someone asked you the question 'uterus babies not sticking to?' how would you respond?"

Boyfriend: "That's not really a question - more like a statement. Or just a string of random words."

Me: "But if it was a question, how would you answer it?"

Boyfriend: "Well, first I would want to get more information. Are you talking about a fetus or embryo inside a uterus or an actual baby uterus? Or a baby's uterus?

Me: "What if it's just a giant uterus that people had to throw babies at and if the babies stick, they win the game or something?"

Boyfriend: "I don't think that's what they meant."

Me: "I'm just trying to be prepared, Duncan. I'm supposed to be an expert on stuff like this and I want to have all my bases covered if that question comes up."

Boyfriend: "So they're trying to figure out how to make the babies more sticky?"

Me: "I was approaching it from the angle of making the uterus more sticky, but making the babies more sticky would also work. How do you propose we make the babies stickier?"

Boyfriend: "How long do they need to be stuck to the giant uterus?"

Me: "About 20 seconds."

Boyfriend: "Wow. That is really specific."

Me: "The rules of Baby-Uterus-Wall-Ball are extremely rigid."

Boyfriend: "You need a job."

Me: "This is my job. And you are negatively affecting my career by not cooperating with me on this."

Boyfriend: "I need to get back to work, Allie."

Me: "So do I!"

Boyfriend: "Okay, what about wrapping the babies in velcro?"

Me: "That could totally work."

Then Boyfriend reminded me that Google tracks all of his emails because he works in a Government lab so I sent him an email that said "furry penis, REDRUM, sphaetergøten!" And Boyfriend was like "WTF?" and I said "I'm trying to throw Google off your trail." And Boyfriend was all "I don't think it works like that." I honestly don't know how he hasn't been kidnapped by the government yet.

You know when you look back at your childhood and ask yourself "how sure am I that I wasn't retarded? I'm pretty sure, right? Holy shit, was I retarded?" That happened to me today and I'm pretty sure that the answer is "yes."

I found one of my journals from elementary school. Have you ever seen the movie "A Beautiful Mind," where Russel Crowe is supposed to be some sort of genius and he writes all sorts of crazy conspiracy plans all over his walls but actually he's just schizophrenic? That's pretty much exactly what my journal looks like, except the signs don't point toward schizophrenia.

Excusing the fact that I obviously wasn't even trying to write on the lines, there are all of these confusing arrows and randomly capitalized words and places where I went back years later to edit in something monumentally important like "I don't need new pants anymore because I bought some cargo pants." Like I was going to be reading along and be suddenly stricken with confusion - "Did I ever buy pants? I don't remember! Oh God! How will I ever - oh good, it looks like I bought some cargo pants. What a relief."

One of my very first journal entries reads "I wonder what my day is going to be like? I hope I have a good day. I'll write more later."

Then later I just wrote "My hand got shut in the car door. It hurt."

Another entry reads "I had so much fun at recess today! We made a slide on a hill out of a cardboard box! And then we played on it!"

The rest of the page is filled with giant, scrawly writing that says "BOXES ARE SO FUN!!!!!!!"

A week or so later I write "I went to the orthodontist today to get my braces tightened. Mom had to run errands and she was late picking me up, so I took a nap behind a plant."

Oh good. A nap behind a plant in a busy dental-complex waiting room. How perfectly normal. I'm sure my mom was overjoyed to explain that to everyone. I can just imagine her shaking me awake and running out of the building, dragging me behind her, yelling "don't judge me!"

Apparently my favorite day ever (I know this because there is a little box above it that says "this is my favorite day") went like this:

"We had a sledding party up at Pine hill and I bashed up my knee. Then we got pizza! Me, Alison, Sophie and Shane sat at the same table and we made really long straws by sticking normal straws inside of each other! Then we saw Patch Adams!"

This is followed by three entire pages of Blink 182 lyrics.

Then this:

It starts out with really tiny handwriting that just says "I saw some really awesome green spots today." (Then the handwriting gets HUGE) "I HAD THE MOST BORING WEEKEND EVER!! MONET STAYED OVER AND JUST SAT THERE LOOKING STUPID. SHE WAS AT OUR HOUSE ALL WEEKEND EATING OUR FOOD AND WATCHING OUR MOVIES. SHE BROUGHT HER STUPID DOG, TRAVIS, AND WHEN I WAS LYING ON THE COUCH, HE JUMPED UP THERE AND STARTED HUMPING MY LEGS AND I COULDN'T MAKE HIM STOP BECAUSE I WAS TRAPPED UNDER A BLANKET!!!! Sunday was okay though. I went to Joey's house and we jumped off of furniture onto pillows."

Because waking up to "Mambo Number Five" by Lou Bega feels like being stabbed in the face with music.

UPDATE: Just because I feel that listening to "Mambo Number Five" by Lou Bega is like being bludgeoned repeatedly with the worst part of every song ever and it's even worse because it gets stuck in your head for six months and pretty soon you are on your knees clawing at your face, yelling "GET IT OUT! GET IT OUT!" until you seriously start to consider fishing it out of your brain with a meat hook, doesn't mean that everyone feels that way.

Alert reader, Kiley, said she likes Lou Bega and I was like "WHAT???" but then I realized that he probably didn't reach the top of the charts because he made everyone bleed from the face. The reality is that some people like Lou Bega.

Curious about this phenomenon, I asked Kiley what she likes about him and she replied that his music makes her feel like dancing.

This made me realize that that is exactly why I don't like "Mambo Number Five" by Lou Bega. It's like Lou Bega is standing right there, prodding you and yelling "HEY! GET UP AND DANCE!! DANCE BECAUSE WE'RE HAVING FUN! FUNFUNFUNFUNFUNFUNFUN!!!! PARTY TIME!!!"

And then I'm like "No Lou Bega, not party time..."

And Lou Bega is like "YES PARTY TIME!!! PARTYPARTYPARTYPARTYPARTY!!!!!"

This happens several times a day. I'll be like "maybe I'm famous now..." and I get all excited and go check, but no. Still not famous.

UPDATE #2: For clarification, when I say "famous" I mean "famous enough to drink dragon tears out of a goblet made from petrified angel feathers while watching an HD video of myself accepting the Nobel prize in a category that was invented specifically to accommodate my excellence - like the Nobel Fantastic Awesome Rad prize." I'm not nearly that famous yet, butI will be, dammit.

UPDATE #3:Veronica just sent me this startlingly accurate picture of me accepting any one of the various awards I'll be receiving in the future:

Doesn't that just look so natural? I'm pretty sure that is the facial expression I was born to make.

I haven't written in a few days. I was trying to be sneaky about it, but you may have noticed.

I recently made the "decision" to stop taking my ADHD medication. I put "decision" in quotes because it wasn't so much a choice as a default consequence of not being mentally capable of going through the necessary steps to renew my prescription.

Anyway, when I first stopped taking my medication, my inattentiveness returned quickly. I had trouble focusing, I forgot simple things like not putting metal in the microwave. Going to the grocery store turned into a monumental effort for me. But all of that is okay because I don't have a job and my microwave was probably about to break anyway.

The last few days, though, have been interesting. When you stop taking an amphetamine-based medication, you feel a little tired. This lasts for a month or so. But once the tiredness goes away, you realize that you are indeed hyperactive. You may have thought you were hyperactive before. You may have even made an analogy involving a flame-thrower in an attempt to describe your alleged hyperactivity. But you were wrong. You had no idea what real hyperactivity is like until now.

I am normally a pretty energetic person. If it were not for my tendency to avoid responsibility, I would be able to accomplish my daily tasks effortlessly with enough time left over to start an AIDS charity. However, I have recently discovered that being energetic is not the same as being hyperactive. No. Being energetic is pleasant. "Energetic" is a quality that you would list on a resume. Hyperactivity is like being forcibly injected with way too much crack-cocaine and then being tied down to a table and made to watch a documentary about sea snails.

And that's when I'm actually doing stuff. When I'm bored, it's more like being forcibly injected with way too much crack-cocaine, being tied down to a table and made to watch a documentary about sea snails, then someone reduces the rate of narrative in your stupid snail documentary and you're like "Hey! I was watching that!" and you get kind of desperate because even though you do not have any interest in snails whatsoever, you never realized how good you had it when the documentary was playing at normal speed and now you want it back. And then someone karate chops you in the face for no reason and you get all agitated but you can't chase after them and inflict justice because you are tied to a fucking chair.

But I could be given a tranquilizer, chained to a high speed treadmill and made to watch 2 Fast 2 Furious on fast forward, and I would still feel slightly under-stimulated.

Combine this with a complete inability to accomplish anything and you find yourself sitting on your couch, drinking coffee mixed with vodka because you forgot to buy milk, staring at the wall with intensity, thinking about how you are going to start volunteering in an emergency room because that sounds exciting and it probably involves way less responsibility than a real job except that you are wrong and have grossly underestimated the responsibility inherent in assisting with a crisis and therefore you probably shouldn't be volunteering in an emergency room, but it doesn't really matter because there would almost definitely be paperwork involved and you wouldn't be able get past that step anyway.

Sweet baby Jesus, I need to get rich and famous really soon so I can afford to go to monster truck rallies. Either that or develop some sort of substance abuse problem that's not life-threatening, but still bad enough to be entertaining, deserving of pity and challenging to overcome. Then I can go on an inspirational-speaking tour and write a best-selling self-help book and become rich and famous that way. I don't see how there could be anything wrong with that plan. I'm pretty much guaranteed to achieve my goals and I'm actually kind of mad that I didn't think of it sooner.

I don't really know where I was going with all of this. It is probably best to stop now.

This year, I'm going to trick myself into accomplishing my New Year's resolutions. I've come up with a bunch of easily achievable "decoy resolutions" among which I will hide my real resolutions. I'm hoping that if I'm flying along, accomplishing things like crazy, and I come to one of my real New Year's resolutions, I'll just assume it's easy like all the other ones and get through it without a problem. Kind of like how zebras confuse their predators by being all stripe-y and running around chaotically. Then the predator is all "Oh no! There's so many of them! I'm so confused and I don't know which one to pick, so I'm just going to stand here and let them run away..."

Actually, I don't think that's what I want. That's the opposite of what I want. Oh well, I've come this far and I'm not about to waste a good blog post on account of a technicality.

New Year's Resolutions:

1. Blink my eyes sometimes. DONE
2. Sit in a chair. DONE
3. Make a sudden, loud noise like "bababababa!!!" DONE
4. Have skin on my arms and legs. DONE
5. Get a real-person job.
6. Think about dolphins. DONE
7. Think about bears.
8. Enjoy eating cheese. DONE
9. Take more showers
10. Incorporate the word "magnanimous" into a blog post. DONE
11. Learn the definition of "magnanimous." DONE. Googled it. It means "to be generous and forgiving of insult or injury, to be free from petty resentfulness."
12. Be more magnanimous. DONE. Kyle, we can be friends if you want. Crap Blog Detective, I take back what I said about you being a "douche bad."
13. Somehow become less scared of my basement.
14. Look outside and see that it is raining. DONE
15. Become famous.
16. Make a million dollars.
17. Point at a lamp. DONE
18. Point at the ground. DONE
19. Hop on one foot. DONE
20. Eat some snow. DONE
21. Don't get any gastrointestinal diseases from eating snow
22. Grow an indestructible exoskeleton
23. Post a picture of a dinosaur on my blog

DONE. I'm such an overachiever. That's eight dinosaurs. AndJesus.

24. Look outside again and see that it is still raining. DONE
25. Look outside and plan to check if it is raining again, but forget about the rain because there are wild turkeys on your parents' lawn and that is distracting. DONE.
26. Get really, absurdly excited about the wild turkeys. DONE
27. Chase wild turkeys off of parents' lawn. DONE. Those turkeys didn't stand a chance.
28. Feel way more powerful than turkeys. DONE
29. Think about monsters. DONE.
30. Write at least one blog post. DONE